


Switch

by anonlytree



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, fix-it AU, for my bestest reader (ahahaha I joke because I'm terrified at the prospect)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonlytree/pseuds/anonlytree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first kiss in six months is a disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switch

**Author's Note:**

> I uh. Had a writing class assignment. Which I didn't turn in despite deadline day. We were supposed to "genre-switch" something we've written before (turn tragedy into comedy, etc. while maintaining Themes and Parallelism and other writerly stuff I don't care about) and all I could think of was [Coordinates. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/865267) so...

Their first kiss in six months is a disaster. Xabi’s so wired, so goddamn impatient, he shoves Stevie against the door of his hotel room hard enough to make his ribs rattle. Stevie doesn’t remember what they were talking about just thirty seconds ago (Mr. Klopp? Pep? The traffic from Heathrow?), but it was amiable and ordinary and didn’t involve Xabi’s teeth sinking into his neck an hour before Stevie’s supposed to go down to the lobby for an interview with the fucking... BBC... _God_. He can’t be having Xabi’s forever cold fingers sneaking under the waistband of his suit trousers already, how did they even...

“Xaaaahhbi,” he yelps, rubbing himself up and down the thick thigh shoved between his legs, which isn’t doing wonders for his credibility right now. “I have to - We can’t...”

An hour is a long time though, so maybe they can. 

The bulk of Xabi’s body tenses against him and Stevie is all of a sudden aware of how many hours he’s spent lounging by the pool in California, trying his best to think of anything but this, with mixed results. He’s hardly ever imagined cupping the back of Xabi’s head like this for example, nor does Xabi giving his arse a possessive squeeze like so come up much. Still, the thought of getting his hands under Xabi’s Champions League kit right after the final whistle when Xabi’s skin is all flushed and slippery is a recurring theme in Stevie’s post and sometimes in his pre-training shower routine as well. 

It’s all coming back to him now, just as his fingers sink into the soft tufts of Xabi’s cropped hair and his tongue drags over Xabi’s lower lip. He’d made some smartarse comment about Bayern’s pink training kit, which he’s now dangerously close to ripping open, and about how it makes Xabi look like a fuzzy Champions League peach. It really doesn’t take much to set Xabi off so here he is, making needy little sounds against Stevie’s mouth.  

There’s a knock on the door and Stevie startles, causing Xabi’s teeth to miss their intended sexy nibble target and clamp way too hard on Stevie’s tongue instead.  

“‘’kin hell!” Stevie hisses, though he’s far less upset about about the pain than he is about the rush of cold air sweeping over him as Xabi takes two steps back.

“Maybe they’ll go away,” Xabi whispers, stepping back into Stevie’s personal space with a hopeful tug at his hips. 

The knocking intensifies. 

“Shit,” Stevie says as the penny drops and ignoring it till it goes away no longer seems like an option, “I was supposed to meet Henry, I forgot.”

It’s too late now anyway, so Stevie’s at the door within two big strides and one attempt at adjusting his trousers that leaves him with neither time nor hands to do something about the state of his hair. One quick look at Xabi confirms that he’s stage ready, if a little stiff and grumpy, standing there with his hands shoved down his pockets halfway to his elbows. 

Thierry Henry does not seem surprised to find a Bayern player in Stevie’s room and sweeps them both up in his boyish enthusiasm and charming grin, relishing this newfound freedom of being just another Liverpool fan in his civilian life. He looks like a dashing 25 year old who borrowed his dad’s suit for a job interview with Sky Sports, but hurtles down a memory lane trod by men who somehow (when???) got old enough to accumulate all these shared experiences. 

Long time no see _indeed_ , Xabi thinks with a trace of ill-disguised malice when Thierry and Stevie reminisce about the charity game at Anfield. He digs his thumb through his pocket and into his thigh until his skin stings to get his focus away from Stevie’s smiling mouth and his throat bared and openly sporting the imprint of Xabi's teeth as he fucking giggles at his fellow pundit. It doesn’t bother Xabi as such, Stevie's - well, he's friendly. And charming. And tactile. (It does bother Xabi a little bit, somewhere deep in his brain stem, but it has its own rewards.) It’s just. They have so little time, they’ve always had so very little of it to call their own, it feels like he’s been counting down seconds for a decade, always rushing ahead of an unstoppable chronometer. His current Pace score in FIFA is 33. He hasn't touched Stevie in six months. He just wants to lay down somewhere warm and never have to run ever again. 

Thierry's voice somehow pierces through the fog machine at Xabi's self-pity party. 

“What are you thinking, Alonso?”

He’s thinking that by now he would have been in the shower already, at least two fingers knuckle deep inside his ex Captain and getting ready to beg Stevie to fuck his mouth already because his knees are killing him. 

"Wenger... Uh. His experience - we are careful to not underestimate it, especially at home. We are not favorites as it seems on paper."

Thierry grins up at him and Xabi is relieved to find that even Arsenal fans who like Liverpool are still as easy to please as ever.

He's also impressed with the way Stevie brings up their matching media commitments as if Sky Sports' well-being is his number one priority and Thierry is genuinely grateful to be shoved out of the room with a handshake and a clap on the back. 

"So."

Stevie spins around and rests his back against the door. Xabi puts unhurried, deliberate hands on him and Stevie doesn't ask what changed his mind, he just kisses him slow and like he means it and trusts Xabi's poor impulse control to do the rest. Stevie could easily do this all night; if not this in particular, at least some version of it that involves his fingers spread out on Xabi's belly under his bubblegum kit.

" _So_ tan," Xabi murmurs against his neck, his beard rasping up and down Stevie's skin while he's trying to taste minute traces of ocean salt on Stevie's collarbones. " _Hostia puta_ ," he grunts and Stevie gives him a pleased little moan because he hasn't even heard the first ring. 

Xabi's ringtone is something impractical and pretentious and thus easy to ignore, but eventually Stevie can no longer ignore Xabi's hip vibrating against his own.

"Sorry, it will go to voicemail soon," Xabi says in a small voice, as if he's afraid to be heard by whoever it is at the other end.

"Pick it up," Stevie says using what Xabi thinks of as his Captain Voice followed by his tongue tracing Xabi's upper lip. "Go on then," he says, adding a hand to squeeze Xabi's hardon, as much an incentive as it is a deterrent.

Xabi's hand flies to his jacket pocket and Stevie's breath catches. With his luck, it's probably Xabi's mother, though he's aware there are some even more fucked up scenarios staring him down.

"Pep... _Hola_ ," Xabi says, a goddamn smirk blooming in the corner of his mouth. " _Vale. Claro, ahora mismo, si quieres._ "

Stevie knows that one, as much by the nonchalance with which Xabi licks his earlobe as by his years spent learning Spanish with the natives. He stops to look at Xabi just for a second, just looking from the kind of closeness that would distort that beautiful face on a phone or laptop screen. And then he's off, dragging Xabi by the waistband of his track pants until he can comfortably sit on the hotel's five star armchair and manhandle Xabi's dick out of his training kit.

"Mhmmm," Xabi says to football's greatest living manager while getting a soft kiss on the tip of his cock.

Then he bites down hard on his lip to not say anything because Stevie spits in his outstretched palm then grips his fingers around him so hard and jerks him off so just the way he likes it, nothing Xabi could say to Pep right now would end in anything pleasant. He's in luck because Pep is watching training videos and is in one of his fugue states in which very little input from his audience is needed. Still, Xabi does provide as much commentary as he can with Stevie's free hand moving up to his shirt to make just enough room for Stevie's nose to rub all over the hair on his stomach.

" _Thiaaaah...go_ ," he gasps and Stevie nips at the skin above his bellybutton in retaliation. " _En la diagonal, sí._ " 

Stevie's free hand goes back to gripping Xabi's thigh because he's starting to rock harder and faster into Stevie's twisting grasp. His head falls back and he has to squeeze his eyes every few seconds just so he can offer Pep scattered fragments of sentences on Arsenal's midfield deficiencies. Stevie swipes his thumb over the slit in his cock at that point in the conversation and the loud and overenthusiastic _nghhhYeaaah_ would not be out of place in Pep's intense training sessions, were it not moaned out in the wrong language.  

All Xabi can do to regain a bit of control is to sink his fingers into Stevie's hair to pull his head back and force eye contact. 

_Suck me_ , he pleads soundlessly and Stevie wets his lips and plays dumb while stroking him harder.

"Yer'wha?" Stevie whispers.

 _Pleeease!_ followed by a clipped _FUCK_ and another monosyllabic nonanswer to Pep's rambling. 

Stevie decides this is his favorite shape that Xabi's mouth goes into, right after the half open way his lips slacken when he's about to come. _Careful what you wish for_ , Stevie thinks before he takes his favorite midfielder's cock in his mouth. He wonders a bit if this is the wrong time to maybe confess how much he's missed this, how good Xabi feels against his tongue, but decides to save his breath - along with Xabi's day job - and renew the enthusiasm with which he's sucking Xabi off and into a state of silent bliss. 

Xabi snaps out of his daze for a brief spell of lucidity in which he never takes his eyes off Stevie's and mumbles into the phone:

"Uh. _¿ Pep? Perdon... el aaah... timbre. Te llamo más tarde, vale... _Bye!"

He then throws his phone onto Stevie's bed where it bounces and settles on the farthest corner of the duvet.

" _Dios_ ," he moans, relieved but desperate all at once. "Stevie... yes! Fuck..."

Stevie comes up for air with a wet pop and grins up at him.

"Miss me?" he asks because he's stupid and can't help himself, but Xabi rubs his dick fondly against his cheek, so hey, at least he's in good company.

"Fuck! So... much... _Stevie_ ," Xabi mumbles and Stevie drags the flat of his tongue on his entire length before sucking him back in and twisting his hand down harder.

Xabi murmurs some broken words of encouragement, strokes his fingers through Stevie's hair and down on his puffed up cheek, contemplating whether the BBC Football Focus make up pro would notice if he comes on their guest's face. Stevie lets out small, stifled moans around Xabi's dick, resuming his task with renewed energy. He can feel how close Xabi is to his climax by how hard he's struggling to keep his hips from bucking forward to fuck deeper into his mouth.

“Stevie,” Xabi hisses, “ _Por favor..._ fuuuuck!”

Stevie pumps his hand hard and fast on Xabi's cock three, two, one last time until his tongue's coated in warmth and salt and he only manages to swallow half of it before Xabi cups his face with both hands and drags him up from his chair, pressing him against his body while his breath is trying to catch up with his frantic heartbeat. Xabi's eyes are less than half open and his lips are blood red and Stevie doesn't care if they never move from where they're slumping against each other, the minibar's stoked. 

Xabi knocks his forehead against his, keeping a hand pressed to his jaw. 

"You OK?" he asks dumbly because he doesn't want to ask if they've got time like some lost tourist in Marleybone Station across the road.

He already knows the answer to that one.

"I'll live," Stevie says and Xabi drags his thumb in a slow caress across his lower lip before Stevie sucks it in his mouth and licks it.

"You think you can get it up while watching the BBC?" he asks as Xabi's checking his suit for any lasting damage and smoothing down the wrinkles he's caused on Stevie's shirt.

"Only for nature documentaries. And that show with Gillian Anderson." Xabi kisses his temple and whispers: "No touching yourself under the BBC desk! I will know if you did. See you later!"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm NOT turning this in, for obvious reasons.


End file.
